Ash and Salt 

Cassian knew the ship now.

He knew the sound the boards made when they shifted beneath heavy boots. He knew the creak of the rigging in the early hours, the sharp call of the gulls at dawn, the way the wind tugged at The Red Wind’s sails when the tide changed.

And he knew the crew.

He had spent the past days watching, listening, memorising the rhythms of their movements. Saoirse, who took the wheel at first light and relinquished it only when the sky was drenched in gold. Rook, who kept to the shadows when he could, slipping through the decks like a ghost. Nina, whose sharp eyes missed nothing but whose hands were quick to share a drink. The others—some hardened by years at sea, some still green enough to flinch at the crack of a pistol—followed their own quiet rituals.

But the most important pattern belonged to Thorne.

The captain had his own way of moving through the ship, his presence a tide that dictated the flow of the crew. Cassian had mapped out when he disappeared below deck, when he stood at the prow with the wind in his hair, when he locked himself away with that damned map.

Tonight, Thorne would be on deck, discussing some nonsense about weather patterns with Saoirse.

Tonight, the captain’s quarters would be empty.

Cassian moved when the moment was right, slipping through the corridors with the kind of ease that only came from years of navigating places he didn’t belong. The lanterns flickered low, casting long shadows, the scent of salt and damp wood thick in the air.

His fingers brushed the handle of the door. Locked. Of course.

He exhaled, crouching low, and with deft hands, he worked the mechanism loose. The lock clicked softly, and Cassian pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.

The room was dimly lit, the dying embers of a lantern casting a dull glow over the space. It smelled like aged parchment, spiced rum, and something distinctly Thorne. A large map lay sprawled across the desk, inked with markings that spoke of calculations, guesses, obsessions. Other maps were stacked nearby, rolled and secured with worn leather bindings.

Cassian’s eyes darted to the shelves, where trinkets of a life spent at sea lined the wood. A dagger with a worn hilt. A bottle of deep blue glass, its contents unknown. A small, folded piece of parchment, its edges softened with age.

He reached for the map first. His fingers skimmed the parchment, tracing the paths Thorne had drawn, the notes scrawled in the margins. He didn’t need to decipher them—he only needed to know what the captain knew.

And then—

The door creaked.

Cassian whirled just as a shadow filled the doorway.

Thorne. 

Thorne stood in the doorway, lantern light casting shadows across his sharp, sun-bronzed features. His amber eyes flickered like embers, half-lidded and unreadable, framed by long, dark lashes that should have made him look softer but didn’t. His jaw was set, the faintest hint of stubble shadowing his skin. He was always unfairly beautiful—dangerous in a way that wasn’t just in the way he carried himself but in the way he was.

Cassian’s grip tightened on the edge of the map, his pulse kicking up.

The captain stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with agonising slowness. His amber eyes flicked over the room, landing on Cassian, on the map in his hands, and then—calmly, deliberately—on the oil lamp burning low on the desk.

"Well," Thorne said, voice rough as the tide. "I suppose I should be impressed you got this far."

Cassian’s smirk was razor-sharp. "You left the door locked. Not well enough, it seems."

Thorne stepped closer, his presence filling the space between them like a storm rolling in. "And what exactly do you think you’re doing, Cassian?"

Cassian tilted his head, fingers brushing the edges of the map. "Getting answers. You seem fond of keeping them from me."

Thorne’s gaze darkened. "You have no idea what you’re playing with."

Cassian’s fingers curled around the parchment. A single, slow movement—one that had Thorne’s shoulders tensing, his eyes flashing with warning.

"I want my things back," Cassian said, voice quiet but unwavering. "I want to know where we’re going. I want a place on this crew—not just as a stray you picked up out of obligation, but as someone you trust." His eyes gleamed in the dim light, a challenge written in every line of his stance. "And if I don’t get it, well…" He held the map just a little closer to the lantern’s flame. "I suppose I’ll have to make things difficult."

Thorne exhaled, slow and measured. His expression was unreadable, but something in it flickered—something unreadable, caught between rage and something else.

"You wouldn’t," Thorne murmured.

Cassian’s smirk deepened. "Wouldn’t I?"

The lantern’s flame swayed, casting long shadows across the walls. The scent of oil thickened.

Thorne took another step closer, slow and deliberate. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet.

"That map isn’t just ink on paper, Cassian. It’s the only way to find what I need. What we need."

Cassian’s heart pounded, but he held his ground. "Then I suggest you start treating me like someone who belongs here."

Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things.

And then—

Thorne’s lips curled into something almost amused, almost dangerous.

"Fine," he murmured. "But you’d better be ready for what that means, duque."

Cassian’s fingers loosened slightly on the map, just enough for Thorne to see it. A victory, perhaps, but a precarious one.

And when Cassian finally let go, allowing the map to fall back onto the desk, Thorne only watched him—like he was something that had just slipped through his fingers.

Something impossible to contain.

Something dangerous.